Ceremony of the Sacred Blade

The riotous shouting of the audience came to a crashing silence of awe when the three figures appeared in the courtyard of Castle Almsore.

The citizens had already experienced so much excitement and amazement at the Royal Procession, and they were hungry for more. Since yesterday the fervor and number of the crowds had not diminished in the least, for there was another event they had been waiting to see. A new Swordmaster was being named, for the first time in over 2 decades.

It was rare to have three swordmasters present in the same place, even in as huge a city as Inlakes. The Royal Procession had brought The Sand Blade from Den' Mezzier to accompany his beloved Queen. One of the oldest of the Swordmasters had traveled with king Vhalkar III on his journey from DornHeim. He was Deliess The Wild Blade. The White Blade was master of Arms at Castle Almsore, and leader of the Royal Guard, and his renown as a local hero did nothing to diminish the crowds wonder. Three Masters were required for such a ritual, and three now walked out to the courtyard in perfect step.

The Sand Blade towered three feet over the others, his many colored Tian'Pathas draggin heavy behind him. His golden Manticore armor was brilliant and terrifying. On his back rested one of the most cruel and wicked blades ever forged by mortals. It's name was simply "Souless".

The Wild Blade, with his hunched back, dragging patchwork robes, and dangling bones and feathers kept stride with the giant warrior in a way that mislead his age. A polished boar skull hid his face, yet his gleaming eyes seemed to pour out over the crowd. He carried no sword.

The White Blade, as clean cut and graceful as ever marched proudly aside his fellow Masters, his white and silver cape or rank flowing behind him. On his hip he carried "Lion's Pride". His infamous enchanted longsword. On his back a light steel shield bearing the Ivory Crown of King Almsore.

They approached the young man in the center of the courtyard, kneeling on his hands and knees. A tawny skinned young elf, with night black hair, like ravens feathers, down to his boots. His clothing was simple. Brown and green cotton with a few patched pads of boiled leather. In front of him rested a two handed elven blade that curved like a bow. When they approached he stood carefully to his feet, after what had to have been an hour of waiting in the kneeling position.

They spoke no words. They simply looked him up and down, and then waited.

He knelt slowly and picked up his sword with both hands. He was shaking, and appeared to have beads of sweat dripping from his brow. He looked nervously to the crowd, then to the Masters, then to his blade. The later seemed to calm his nerves.

The wind began to sing, or so it seemed. The blade looked like a piece of silver ribbon dancing in the palm of his hand the way he twisted and controlled it. His feet barley seemed to touch the ground during his dance. It was like nothing the crowd had ever seen. It looked as though he was three steps behind the silver snake that danced around him in the courtyard air. His hair bustled like great wings each time he lept off the stone. His own voice joined the song of the wind and his image appeared nothing more than a blur. Like wet paint stretched thin on a canvas. Like the wings of a hummingbird.

The song faded, and time began to pass once again. The audience was freed from their prison of moments that would never end. His blade rested on the ground in front of the Masters. He looked up at them, all fear diminished from his eyes. Never breaking eye contact he rose to his feet and pulled open the front of his vest. He pointed to his left breast and lowered his eyes, in a gesture or readiness. He appeared to be mouthing an oath only they could hear.

The White Blade slowly drew his longsword, and looked to see that The Sand Blade was doing the same. From off his back he pulled Souless from its sheath. It was like a Falchion, but long and thin. The blade was pressed so flat that when turned at just such an angle, seemed to vanish. Every inch of the red steel was etched with runes. The Wild Bladed seemed to reach down to pluck a flower, but from the very stone he pulled a twisted blade of wood and crystal, appearing weightless in his bony hands.

They moved in turns, each showing unreal precision and practice. With quick slashes each cut a line on the young elf's breast. Each one adding to the last cut placed, slowly forming an image. The symbol. The crest of the Sacred Blade. They moved with such speed that the image was drawn on the canvas of his heart before the blood even began to trickle, then pour. In silent agony the elf fell to the stone. When he awoke from his wounds, he would be reborn. Those cuts would form scars that would not heal. Could not heal. For the rest of his life he would look down on them with pride, but the pain would never leave.

The White Blade sheathed his sword and turned to the crowd. Even the King and his Royal guests looked down in amazement from the castle wall. "People of Macinar.." His voice echoed. "I give you Master Salvantis the Leaf Blade. Brother of the Order of the Sacred Blade."

The Crowd remained silent. The world had just changed.